Chapter 6
Sabine
The elevator dings,and the doors slide open to a crowd of drunken bachelorettes. Tiny plastic penises are everywhere. In their hair, around their necks, in their drinks.
A cloud of Victoria’s Secret body spray crop-dusts the car as I sidestep two women comparing matching tattoos they’d just gotten. Both are laughing so hard that one drools, missing my new Louboutins by an inch.
I catch a glimpse of the new ink. On the blonde’s forearm is an image of a salt shaker, and on her friend’s, a pepper shaker. One reads: Shoop Shoop A-Doobie. The other: Like Scoobie Doobie.
I grin, then feel a pang of envy. (Of the friendship—not the tattoos, to be clear).
Gripping the small (fake) Chanel purse I have draped over my shoulder, I make my way through the crowd, ignoring the catcalls and whistles but secretly loving them. The dress just paid for itself.
“Good evening, Miss Hart.” Jalen, a six-foot-seven former linebacker greets me as I approach the velvet rope barrier.
“Evening, J.”
His gaze sweeps me as he pulls aside the rope for me. The crowd groans. Everyone wants access to this exclusive elevator.
“May I say you look ravishing tonight.”
“You most certainly may.” I wink, inhaling the scent of his cologne. Jalen wears the best cologne. Definitely not Victoria’s Secret. “Thank you. It’s my birthday.”
“Well, a big fat happy birthday to you, then.” Using the keycard chained to his wrist, he illuminates the screen next to the elevator. “Big plans?”
“Yes. I’m taking two weeks off work, starting tonight, and I’ve got the entire left side of the dessert menu being delivered to my room in exactly,” I glance at my watch, “two hours.”
The elevator door opens, and I step inside.
“Well, what a coincidence.” He grins, blinding white teeth against deep ebony. “That’s the exact time I get off.”
“What?” I cup my hand to my ear, mocking deafness. “I can’t hear you. I’m sorry, I can’t?—”
Jalen chuckles as the door slides closed.
I tap a screen on the elevator door and type in the code that was sent to my secure email thirty minutes ago. On a subtle chime, the elevator descends, passing the floor that houses the exclusive club that everyone thinks the elevator leads to, and dropping several floors below street level to an uber-exclusive underground bar that only the wealthiest and most powerful people know about.
When the doors open, the scent of sandalwood drifts into the car—the Dungeon’s signature scent.
I don’t recognize the guard, and this alarms me a bit. The Dungeon isn’t the type of place to go alone, or at least, to be unknown by the staff. It’s not that it’s unsafe; it’s that the men here have an inflated sense of ownership of everything around them, including the women. I’ve visited enough times that most of the staff know me—but not tonight.
A man steps out of the shadows as I hand my identification to the doorman/guard, watching me closely. I glance at the gun on his belt.
Something is different about tonight.
“Ballroom 107, Miss Hart,” the monstrous man says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard. “Down the hall, to your left, then make a right at the tee. You’ll need a code to get inside.” He presses a button, and a tiny card prints from under the lectern he is standing behind. “This number will be invalid in ten minutes. If you leave the ballroom, you’ll need another card to get back in. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Usually, I take my time walking down the long red-carpeted hallway, appreciating the artwork and chandeliers that hang from the ceiling. Tonight, however, I’m eager to get to my post, and even more eager to get back to my room.
There is yet another guard outside of Ballroom 107. This one, however, is wearing a tuxedo and looks far less intimidating. I recognize him as Timothy, a frequent staffer.
“Good evening, Miss Hart.” He smiles warmly. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you. What’s with all the beefed-up security tonight?”
Timothy shrugs. “They never tell us, and honestly, I don’t ask. May I escort you inside?”
“No thanks.”
I beeline it to the bar, scanning the dimly lit room as I do. Different night, same scenery.
The multiple-level ballroom is sparse with dozens of men in either tuxedos or fancy suits, and Barbie-sized women hanging on their arms, dripping in gold, diamonds, implants, and fillers. Cigar smoke floats on the candlelight. The focal point of the room is a roped-off poker table. Vacant, for now.
I take note that my red dress is the exact color of the carpet in the room. Kismet? Or a fashion disaster? I’m not sure which.
On my first-ever visit to the Dungeon, I was awestruck—and honestly, intimidated. But I soon learned that everyone who comes here is the same. Shallow, ostentatious elites living in a world dominated by material things. Well-groomed, carefully curated humans primed to take over the earth, here for no other reason than social status and profit. They are polite and cultured to your face, and vicious behind your back.
I can’t say that I don’t respect them, though. I do. It takes discipline to obtain and maintain that kind of wealth. It’s just that when I speak to them, I feel as though I’ve landed on another planet. A fish out of water, I can play the part—and I play it well, if I do say so myself. Some nights I pretend I’m the lead actor in a Broadway play. Some nights I’m a real estate heiress, and others, the daughter of a tech CEO.
Tonight, however, I’m just going to be me. It is my birthday, after all.
“Miss Hart, good evening. I was hoping to see you tonight.” Harold, the five-foot-one, seventy-something bartender slides a martini to the woman in front of him, then meets me at the end of the bar.
“Hey, Harold.” I smile warmly. “How’s the shoulder?”
The old man shrugs, rotating his right cuff. “Good as new. My last therapy session was two weeks ago.”
“Good for you. No more sidewalk scooters for you, then?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve made a vow to never ride one of those things again.” He jerks his chin to the far corner of the room where a group of men sit on leather couches. “Your man is here; did you see him?
“I did. Is Carlos behaving?”
I glance over my shoulder to where Carlos sits in a cream Giorgio Armani suit, one long leg crossed over the knee, a Scotch in his hand. His long brown hair is pulled back in his signature ponytail, and his skin looks even more tanned than usual. He sits with the aloof swagger he’s known for, hardly paying any attention to the men around him.
“So far, yes. He just bought a few Cubans for himself and his crew. So far, that’s all he’s spent money on. I think they’re about to start the poker game. Will you be joining him at the table?”
“No. I’m only here to ensure Carlos behaves.”
“I heard it’s a half-million buy-in tonight.”
“Exactly.” I roll my eyes.
Harold chuckles. “Carlos would be broke without you.”
No—I’d be broke without me. Carlos’s money is basically my money.
“By the way, you look stunning tonight. When are you going to let me take you on a date?”
I take in Harold’s injured shoulder. He certainly fits my type: in need of help. I think of all my ex-boyfriends, and how, in every relationship, I stayed entirely too long. Why? Because I am a fixer-upper. Guilty as charged.
“Harold,” I say with a smile, “I’d bore you to death. Trust me on this.”
“Not looking like that, you wouldn’t.”
I snort, then sigh. “Is that all it takes these days, Harold? A skintight cocktail dress and a pair of Spanx?”
“In this town? Yes. But you see, Miss Hart, those women and their Spanx come and go as easily as the money in this room. Intelligent, polite, genuinely kind women like yourself are rare and meant to be worshipped.”
“Okay, fine. You got me. I’ll date you. Hell, I’ll marry you if you keep talking to me like that.”
“Perfect. How about we start by me buying you a drink. What would you like? The usual? Lemon Drop martini?
I smile. I have grown very fond of this man. “Yes, please, and let’s make it a double tonight.”
“A double, huh? What are we celebrating?”
“My birthday.”
“No kidding! How many years of life are we celebrating?”
“Twenty-something.” I wink. “And that’s all I’ll say.”
Harold chokes. “My daughter is older than you.”
“Family dinners will be awkward, then.”
He laughs, then turns toward the couple stepping up to the bar. “I’ll be back with that martini—and some champagne.”
“Thank you.”
I lean back in my chair, twisting the gold ring around my index finger.
Another birthday.
I sigh, tip back my head, and stare at the ceiling.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if something great happened tonight?